Chapter 8
“Lorenzo had been there the night my mother moved Patrick from Saint Matthew’s,” Beatrice said. “He arranged a car. He paid Dr. Mercer. Without him, Patrick would not have survived.”
“So you trusted him,” I said.
“My mother did.”
Patrick looked at me.
“I asked about you.”
“What did he say?”
“That you believed I was dead. That telling you would put both of us at risk.”
I looked down at my tea.
That explanation might have worked on the man I had been then.
Grieving.
Young.
Surrounded by advisers who controlled every door into the truth.
“What happened at the station?” I asked.
“Lorenzo arrived with Daniel Cross.”
“The man in the photograph?”
“Yes.”
Patrick’s damaged fingers tightened.
“I recognized the ring before I recognized his voice.”
Beatrice reached across the table and rested her hand beside his.
Not on him.
Near enough to remind him he was not alone.
“Cross said he had arranged a safe route to Canada,” Patrick continued. “He said Father had enemies watching the airports.”
“And you went with them.”
“I made it as far as the parking lot.”
“What stopped you?”
Patrick’s gaze shifted toward Beatrice.
“She did.”
Beatrice looked embarrassed.
“I was sixteen.”
“You were impossible,” Patrick said.
“You were about to get into a car with strangers.”
“One stranger and Lorenzo.”
“Two strangers.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then a warmth appeared in his expression that had not been there before.
“She pulled the fire alarm,” he said.
I looked at Beatrice.
“In a train station?”
“She also threw a suitcase through a glass door,” Patrick added.
“It was lighter than it looked.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
The sound surprised me.
It surprised Patrick too.
For a moment, the tension loosened.
Then he continued.
“People started running. Police came. Beatrice’s mother got me into a taxi.”
“What did Lorenzo do?”
“He tried to follow us.”
“Did Cross?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Patrick looked at his hand.
“He stood beside the car and smiled.”
The room became quiet again.
“That was when I understood,” he said. “They did not need to chase me. They only needed me to stay afraid.”
“Did Lorenzo contact you again?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“Three days later. He left a voicemail.”
“Do you still have it?”
Beatrice rose without a word.
She opened Patrick’s canvas bag and removed an old digital recorder wrapped in cloth.
My brother placed it on the table.
“This is a copy,” he said. “Mother transferred it before the phone was destroyed.”
He pressed play.
Static filled the kitchen.
Then Lorenzo’s younger voice emerged.
Patrick, listen to me. I made a mistake. Do not go to the police. Do not contact Adrian. Cross knows everything. He knows where you are before I do. I am trying to fix this. Until I can, stay dead.
The recording ended.
I stared at the device.
“He warned you,” I said.
“He also brought Cross to me.”
“He said it was a mistake.”
Patrick looked at me.
“Would you forgive that mistake?”
I did not answer.
Because I did not know.
Beatrice returned to her chair.
“My mother believed Lorenzo was trapped,” she said. “She thought someone had power over him.”
May you like
“What kind of power?”
“She never told me.”
